A Question of Taste
by MarionArnold
Summary: Job shares a moment with a random OC that he encounters between S1 and S2 when he is in a spot of bother.
1. Chapter 1

So welcome (back (again)) to the wacky world of MarionArnold after a long drought. I find Job a wonderful character and although he has some fabulous lines in Banshee I wanted to devote more attention to him.

Shout out to Wilusa whose story 'Enigma' gave me a heading for how to interpret Job. Currently his sexuality hasn't been clarified in the show (probably deliberately) and while I haven't made him gun barrel straight my OC is female.

This is set between season 1 and 2.

Chapter 1

_Fuck_.

He could feel the eyes on him.

Normally that wouldn't have worried him. He was used to people staring at him, at his male figure encased in typically female clothes. He would normally just ignore them or otherwise stare them down until they looked away discomforted. He did not accept that they had any right to judge him. They could never understand him. They were beneath him.

But today had not gone to plan_ it had been a cluster fuck actually:_ he was tired, he wanted a shower and the woman who was currently organising his night's accommodation behind the desk was working at glacial speed.

He was _not_ in a charitable mood.

"Can I help you?" he demanded, turning to look directly at the woman standing beside him. _Provincial_ he decided after an encompassing glance at her t-shirt, shorts and boots _for fuck's sake_ – just like all of the other hicks and rednecks in this god forsaken place.

The startled expression on her face was almost enough to make him regret his tone. _Almost_.

"I'm sorry", she said quietly. "I didn't mean to stare. I just... um... I"

"You got a sentence in there sweetheart or not?" he mocked, cocking a brow.

She straightened, it still only brought the top of her head to his chin but her eyes flashed as if she was looking down on him. "I like your shoes", she said evenly.

Job blinked, her composure in the face of his best 'bitch please' face not what he had been expecting. "They're Ann Demeulemeester" he replied loftily to put her in her place.

"Gesundheit."

Definitely _not_ what he had been expecting and he looked a little more closely at her. A more polar opposite of Carrie (it was almost natural to use that name now) he couldn't have found if he had gone looking. She was nothing special to look at, short enough not to be tall but too big to be considered petite or dainty with a decent rack and large hips that managed to give her curves that took away some of the softness in her belly. Her hair was short: a couple of few weeks ago it would have still had its style but she had let it grow a little too much and it was a non descript sort of brown, slightly lighter than her naturally arched but woefully maintained eyebrows and while she had high cheekbones that would hold her facial structure into old age, her face was a little too round, her lips a little too thin, her chin a little too pronounced for real beauty. Her deep brown eyes however, _they_ were something special and they were currently laughing at him.

Strangely it wasn't all that unpleasant.

"She's a Belgium designer", he found himself explaining in a milder tone. "Most of her work is in clothing, but she occasionally designs shoes specific for her collection." (1)

"Well that explains why I haven't seen anything like them before", the woman acknowledged dryly. "You wear them well."

His eyes narrowed suspiciously, her tone was certainly light but there didn't seem to be any maliciousness. It was strangely accented as well _South African perhaps?_ Her last sentence could have been the end of the conversation, but he was curious now. "I have three pairs of her shoes", he admitted after a moment.

"So – and I'm just taking a wild guess here," she responded with more than a hint of wryness, turning a smile up to him, "you're not a local are you?"

"Hell no", he said before his suspicion caught up with his mouth. "Why do you ask?"

"I'm a tourist", she shrugged easily, smirking at his initial response. "I was trying to get some information about the local area but these people don't seem to want to talk to me."

"Talking to me is not going to help your chances," he said wryly, noting how the lady behind the desk was looking at them. A lilt of his brow was enough to make her flush and scrabble with the paperwork.

The tourist turned to follow his gaze and snorted. "Strangely enough", she stood up on her toes and leaned in confidentially as the woman got her papers in order and walked towards them. "I don't give a flying fuck. Thanks", she said in a louder tone as she took her copies of the room hire and the key from the clerk. "Nice talking with you" she turned back to him and flashed a smile that lit up her eyes and showed off not quite perfect teeth.

"Uh-hmm," he watched her curves walk away with mild interest, a slight scent of lavender still in his nostrils.

"Ah….. sir?" It was the hesitancy that annoyed him most, as if the wench couldn't make up her mind as to what she was addressing. "Your card's been declined."

"Suck my tit," he cursed, himself as much as the somewhat flustered clerk in front of him. _Stupid, stupid. _ "Did you use the end with the stripe?" The insult was more habit than anything.

"I'm sorry sir", _at least she had come to a decision_. "I tried it three times – it was declined. I _could_ try it again but if it is declined again I will have to confiscate the card."

_Hell you will_, he thought and some of it must have made it to his face because her expression set. Of course he had three others in his purse that he could use, but they were all in different names and he could just imagine her reaction if he was to pass her one of those. Hood could pull it off with one of those shit eating grins that always managed to have the ladies dropping their panties for him - but that wasn't Job. Or not in his current outfit anyway. "Where is your phone?"

"Over there", she pointed obligingly enough with only a side glance at her companion, although whether that was because of her natural courtesy or whether she was glad to get rid of him was something that he could have laid bets on. His smile was accordingly somewhat snarky as he spun on his heel, his coat almost flouncing behind him. He ratted through his purse looking for change and bumped into something solid, the purse dropping from his hand. "Son of a..." he growled and dropped to his haunches, reaching around the pillar to retrieve the few coins and his lip gloss. _Could the day get any worse?_

"You take the right, you left."

_Of course it could._

The voice was still familiar, even though slightly husky _no doubt from the blow to his throat_ and Job looked carefully over his shoulder. _Fuck,_ _not good_. The thug had brought two burly reinforcements inside - a quick look outside confirmed that there was another three there. One of them wasn't quite as good as the others at hiding the mach10 beneath his jacket. _Fuck_.

_Drop the goods_ he could hear Hood's voice in his head (again the name was second nature now, it was actually difficult to remember him as he had been, who he had been, before.). _Of course if Hood actually knew what goods he was dispensing advice about he might not have been so cavalier. _ One simply did not abandon several million dollars' worth of diamonds because a crooked fence didn't like being compelled to follow through with the negotiated price. Hell, Job figured he was _owed_ those millions - for his business, for the inconvenience, for the hassle, for having to move his ass into a tinpot town like Banshee, for the trauma of the whole Rabbitt thing. He was going to sell these damn rocks as soon as he could and re-establish himself. He would keep a hold of Hood's cut until the man came to his senses.

His eyes searched ahead of him - the promised phone, a large potted plant and the two restrooms - there was no way out.

_So he would have to make his own._

Careful to keep his face just slightly down so that the ends of the wig caressed his cheekbones he stood and sauntered to the ladies' room – he was not an inconspicuous figure though and he caught the swift turn of one of the thugs in the reflection off the phone box. Thankfully the room was empty – the prospect of a screamer who wouldn't take kindly to his entrance into the facilities a real one that would have made life even more difficult – and he cast his eyes around. There was a bench along on one (mirrored) wall with obligatory vases of potpourri flowers and soap dispensers, an old fashioned air dryer and waste bin just behind the swing of the door and the three stalls on the far wall, with the one disabled stall opposite the last two. His eyes were drawn to the two small windows to the outside but time was an issue. "Fuck" he swore and bent to pull at his shoes.

The door opened as he stepped inside the stall, he heard the man breathing as he eased into the room, apparently not entirely confident of who he had seen enter the room. "Anyone here?" he called out carefully.

Job stayed silent, controlling his breathing in the almost silence of the room and waited.

There was a footstep - then the first stall door was pushed open. Another step and the second one opened. "You in there bitch?" the man was apparently now feeling sure of himself. "Come out now darling and I….."

Job kicked the door of the disabled stall. Built to ensure that no-one got stuck inside, it opened outwards, slamming into the man half bent to examine the tips of Job's shoes perched near the base of the toilet in the opposite stall. There was a crunch and then a thud as the impact pushed the man into the other door. He groaned and lifted his arm, having only time to grimace before Job's fist struck him across the jaw and he slid unconscious to the floor.

"Asshole" muttered Job and opened the door to the other stall, picking his shoes up in one hand and stepping onto the bowl of the toilet and reefing open the window. It screeched in protest but allowed itself to be extended to its maximum height _which was only just wide enough_ reflected Job with a grimace. He pushed his shoes and bag out the window, hearing them impact the pavement just below the window and reached up to grasp the edge.

There was a gasp behind him and he turned – the woman looked up from the body on the floor with horrified eyes.

"Well go on then" snarked Job.

She screamed.

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(1) The designer is real, but I couldn't see shoes in her collections.

There were a couple of little references which anyone who has read my previous works may notice. Just for fun, there is no link to any of those universes.

I would really enjoy hearing from you.


	2. Chapter 2

Thankyou MissMeggo929 and Minnelli-pants for your kind words about the first chapter – even if you don't know what the hell is going on MissMeggo929! I hope you and anyone else reading this enjoys this next chapter.

Chapter 2

"Fucks sake Marion", she muttered to herself, tossing her bag on the bench and casting her eye around the room _as bad as a bloody horny teenager_.

_Well it has been a few years_ said another mental voice in a conciliatory tone. The room wasn't flash, but it would do for the night.

"You are _39_ years old" she reminded herself tartly, kicking off her boots. "Far too old to get turned on by just a set of tight forearms and pouting lips". _Even if they were in purple lipstick._

_Pfft_ was the articulate response.

Her physical reaction aside Marion had been intrigued by the ...person who had come to stand next to her at the reception counter. Her peripheral vision had suggested that it was a woman, albeit a tall and solid woman with a shoulder length bob and floating coat and she had ignored her to focus on the paperwork that she needed to complete. His voice however had disabused her of that and she had looked up in sheer surprise, but the fear of causing offence had put her head back down again. Curiosity being what it was, she looked out the corner of her eye at him as she completed the form and then handed it over to the clerk to process. His red beaded black corset and gold Moulin Rouge type skirt was completely out of place but he carried it off with a flamboyant _I don't give a fuck what you think about me_ style that she wished she had guts (if not the figure and the height) to carry off. His shoes, chunky red and gold wedges that wove around his ankle with red and black cords with what appeared to be a dragon figurehead off the back of the heel (1), in particular had fascinated her. She had been embarrassed at being caught staring, but the disdain in his voice had quite simply pissed her off and she had answered in a way that she would not normally have. Except for the fact that he adjusted his tone she would have turned on her heel without a second thought, but in that brief conversation she had become interested, having a glimpse of how someone like him might have to struggle through life in a way that she would never have to and she could forgive him his hostility.

She heaved a sigh. "Shower," she decided - the day had been hot and she had done a lot of walking before sitting in a non air-conditioned car for a couple of hours. "Then chocolate." _That and her imagination, maybe even some smutty fanfic, would have to do for company tonight_.

She undid the button on her shorts and let them fall to the ground, pulling her shirt up and over her head and dropping it in the same location. She sighed again as she released her bra clasp and dropped it on the pile, reaching for one of the carefully folded towels on the bed.

There was a knock on the door.

Marion frowned – no-one knew where she was. Her uncle knew that she was in Pennsylvania but she hadn't told him where she was going when she left Philadelphia and he wouldn't be expecting a call from her for at least a week. It was one of the reasons she had stayed; of all her (and _his)_ relatives, he didn't smother her.

_Had to be someone from the front office _she decided – and ignored it, heading to the shower. There was another, more urgent knock and she paused, frowning. A third, agitated knock sounded and she turned to the door, wrapping the towel around her and tucking it securely.

_Not someone from the front office_. She stared at the man that she had met at the front desk, her mouth literally dropping open slightly. The man was seriously good looking – the dark eyeshadow accentuating his strong features rather than making him look any less masculine. His wig (well, she was presuming it was a wig) was partially hidden by a hood that he had pulled up to the front of his forehead and he was hunched slightly, disguising his height. He looked nervous, casting a glance along the wall of the motel.

"Hi," she said, unable to process anything past that.

"Hi," he turned back to her and offered a brilliant smile that didn't quite make his eyes. "Would you mind if I came in?"

Marion's brows rose _what the hell?_ "Why?" she asked bluntly.

He looked down briefly, seemingly just becoming aware of the state of her undress, then back up to her eyes. "I'm in a little bit of trouble."

Marion's brows stayed up, she leaned forward to look outside, in one direction and then the other – there was no-one. She looked up and suddenly realised how close she had come to him. She could smell the slight tang of sweat amongst the _floral_ of his perfume and the warmth in her belly bubbled. She swallowed and retreated back into the doorway. "Why?" she asked again, asserting mental control over her body.

"Philosophical differences regarding the sanctity of a deal struck," he replied acidly, taking another glance over his shoulder.

"So _not_ police?" she asked for clarification, even as a part of her appreciated his eloquence.

"No," his voice had lost all its affectation – she liked its natural timbre, it was warm and a touch honey like. _Marion!_

"Who are they then?"

He all but ground his teeth in frustration, but he kept control with the exception of a tart edge to his voice. "Bad men."

"Are you a bad man?" she asked with a slight teasing tone but in all seriousness. _Why she was even considering this was beyond her. _She knew that she should slam the door in his face. She never even picked up hitch-hikers – _well there had been one, but she'd had the dog in the back seat and the bloke would have blown away in a stiff breeze_ (2)_. _ Today she was alone, no-one knew where she was and this man was much more ... 'of a man' was the phrase that came to mind but she wasn't sure whether that was technically or philosophically correct.

"Not to you," said the man in front of her, bringing her attention back to him. His voice sounded sincere and as she looked up into his deep brown eyes she saw the earnestness in them – and she believed him. She stepped aside and back a step – he came in after her and took the door from her hands, closing it and putting the chain up. He gave one look through the peep hole and then turned to her again. "Thankyou ma'am."

Marion grimaced – she would never get used to that. "Marion," she substituted and held out her hand.

"Job"(3) he replied; he wasn't a massive man but her hand all but disappeared into his and though his grip was strong it didn't try to dominate hers and she felt a little more comfortable. _Except that she was all but naked_ she reached out a foot to push the bundle of clothes into a more discrete pile which didn't quite so blatantly show off her utilitarian bra.

"So now what?" she wondered out loud, mentally tasting his name _Job_ and liking it.

Apparently he didn't get the movie reference_ or he just had no sense of humour_ and his reply was terse. "We wait."

"For…" she prompted and he glanced at her again.

"For them to go away," he explained a little more fully.

"They," _and she didn't even know who 'they' were_ "will give up?"

He shrugged, reaching forward to tweak the curtains so that he could look outside the room. "They'll give up on looking for me here. It must have been blind luck that they found me to start with, I know I wasn't followed."

Marion frowned as he almost talked to himself, noting the qualification. A thought struck her. "Do you have a gun?"

"No," he replied, then apparently becoming conscious of the note of discontent in his voice and looked at her. "I do not."

_Do they?_ she considered asking but decided that she didn't want to know the answer. She watched him for a moment, focused on the outside and considered her position. _It bordered on the ridiculous_. Here she was standing all but naked next to a cross dressing stranger who was being chased by 'bad men'. _What are you doing babe? _asked an echo of a familiar tone affectionately but with that exasperated edge that it got when her brain couldn't muster two grains of common sense.

"I'm having a shower," she decided out loud and observed his absent minded nod of his head with a mixture of amusement and pique. Shaking her own just slightly to herself she made her way to the bathroom, stepping inside and closing the door – noting that there was no lock on the door. "Well it's not like he's even remotely interested," she told herself quietly and shrugged, but held onto the towel and her undies until the water was running to her satisfaction.

The hot water was a welcome relief as it cascaded over her head and she allowed it to wash over her face. She lifted her arms to massage the water through her hair and the scar on the palm of her hand caught her attention. _Such a little thing_ she thought once again _and yet…._ The pain was still there – she supposed it would never truly go away – but it was more of a dull ache, a wistful longing than a sharp stabbing grief. Most nights she could sleep now – maybe not until somewhat later than most, but it was rare that the dreams would wake her.

A sharp knock at the door and then a cold rush of air snapped her out of her thoughts.

"What the hell….." she started, a touch of fear adding a bite to her voice. _Had she badly miscalculated? _

"Ssh," he insisted, walking straight past the shower to where there was a small window over the toilet. "They're here."

Marion poked her head out of the shower enclosure and heard a noise on the outside door. "Why would they come here?" she asked, a slight frision of fear in her voice.

"Those bitches at the counter," he replied tersely, glaring at the window as if he could make it bigger just by sheer contempt. "Saw us talking and jumped to conclusions."

"Ah," Marion bit her lip and decided not to point out that their jumping had been rather accurate. The options that were available were not all that attractive: they were quite literally, backed into a corner. _Attack was the best defense _(never mind their only option). "Stay turned around," she said and stepped out of the shower.

"What?" he blinked and contrarily looked at her – she flushed even as he spun back around with what she suspected was a curse. She grabbed the towel and wrapped it around her again, opening the bathroom door. His hand reached out and latched around her forearm. "What are you doing?"

"What any sane person would do," she responded and raised a brow until his hand released her. "I'm answering the door."

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Finding Nemo is the movie reference if you missed it.

(1) Shoe is actually by Charlotte Olympia and you can find a reference to it on .com(forward slash)image(forward slash)83755347039. The outfit can be found by a google search of Moulin rouge skirt.

(2) True story.

(3) For those unacquainted with the sassy perfection that is Job, his name is pronounced with a long o, as in jobe. And you really should get to know him.


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks to those that are reading – I would love to hear what you like about the fic so please drop me a line.

Chapter 3

"Hold your horses," Marion called out as there was a thump on the door, reaching for her mobile in the side pocket of her handbag. She checked that the chain was still in place, although in truth she thought it looked a bit flimsy, and opened the door to the extent. "Can I help you?" she demanded, in an icy a tone as she could manage, as befitting someone who had been dragged out of her shower.

There was a slight delay, "good evening ma'am," said a respectful, if a touch hoarse, voice and there was a shuffle of bodies in front of the door until the speaker was within eyesight. "I was wondering if I may come in."

"Wonder all you want mate," she retorted broadly. "It's a free country I believe."

His lips twitched – not in a humorous way. "May I please come in ma'am."

"Why?" _how many times was that? _wondered the irreverent part of her brain. "Are you a motel employee?"

His mouth opened but he apparently saw her next question on the tip of her tongue and he decided to go for honesty instead. "No I am not ma'am."

"Then the answer is no," she replied. "I am tired and I am going to go to bed." She made to shut the door – but a foot interceded.

"I am sorry ma'am – but I really must insist," said the voice in an edgier tone. "I need to see inside the room."

"I am sure that the management can allow you access to an unoccupied room," she stressed and put some more force behind her effort to shut the door.

His face grimaced slightly, whether from the pressure on his foot or her recalcitrance she didn't know. "I need to see _this_ room."

"And so you might after tomorrow at 11am," she replied. "Now remove your foot otherwise I will call the police."

"You don't want to do that little lady," he cautioned.

"Bullshit I don't," she snorted, glancing at her phone and pressing the numbers learnt from too many American tv shows. "One… two…."

The man nodded and a shoulder slammed into the door even as she pressed the green call button. The chain _was_ flimsy and it barely slowed down the door as it flung open. Marion was thrown back into the bench next to the tv hard enough to drop the phone from her grasp and three men entered into the room. "Get out of my room!" she ordered loudly.

The man who had spoken to her, well dressed but slightly oily looking, held out a placating hand. "Now, now…"

"Get out right now!" she yelled this time, as much for the benefit of the dispatcher on the other end of the line as for Job in the bathroom, watching the other two men open her wardrobe and look under the bed. They looked at each other and advanced towards the bathroom door, one reaching to his hip. Marion reached out, picked up the remote and hurled it at one of the men. In defiance of all the odds (_sportswoman she was not_) it slammed against the back of his head and he grunted in pain, whirling to glare at her. His action moved his coat and she saw the hilt of a gun. "Gun!" she screamed loudly, this time solely for the benefit of the dispatcher.

The boss man made a sharp gesture, taking a step towards her. "Ma'am…."

"They have guns," she yelled loudly, looking through the door to where there were some people looking in her direction as the two men set up formation either side of the bathroom door. "Call the police!"

"Enough ma'am," he ordered, clearly mistaking her for an overexcited female that he could subdue with a masterful tone as he stepped towards her. In another situation she may have been amused, but the insult just further enraged her _sexist arsehole. _

The bathroom door was flung back and she launched herself at the man in front of her. She went for his eyes and felt her fingers sink in before his hands wrapped painfully around her wrists and reefed them around her back, pulling her close against him. She lifted her knee savagely and he grunted in pain as she scored a perfect blow: she stomped down and he yelled as she landed a blow on his knee. He buckled and hit the ground, dragging her in a heap on top of him and she used her elbows _because they were apparently the hardest part of the body or something_.

Her arms were gripped from behind and she was lifted bodily up off the man and thrown contemptuously onto the bed – she bounced, hit against the wardrobe and landed on the floor in a tangle of limbs and towel.

"He's not here," she heard one of the men say.

_Where the bloody hell did he go?_ she wondered briefly, blinking to try to disperse the blackness that was threatening to engulf her.

"Get the bitch," growled the boss's voice.

_Oh shit_, she started to scramble into some type of order but knew she was in a lot of trouble.

The faint strains of sirens sounded.

"Fuck." With a glare in her direction the two men picked up their leader and half carried him out of the room. Marion sat there for another couple of seconds, breathing hard and waited – the sirens getting louder. She reached for the towel that was half hanging off the bed and covered her nakedness, standing and immediately regretted her enthusiasm as her head spun. She grabbed at the wall for a few moments until the blackness receded and walked cautiously to the door. There was no sign of the men, but there was a crowd of people standing far enough away on the other side of the carpark. "I'm fine," she called sarcastically and lifted the broken hinged door back into the closed position.

"Are you sure?" asked a voice.

She jumped, spinning around to look at Job emerging from the bathroom. Her head didn't approve and she almost lost contact with both her towel and her consciousness. His expression became more concerned and he advanced on her. She held her hand up, taking a couple of steps and disconnecting her mobile, wincing as she realised that she hadn't even thanked the quick witted dispatcher. "I thought you'd gone."

He shook his head and, having continued his advance to her, lifted his hand and pushed aside some hair to look closely at her scalp.

"Nothing broken," she replied lightly, his touch sparking something more than adrenalin which dulled out the pain. She looked up at him _if she just got up on her tiptoes…._

There was a knock at the door. "Police," said an official voice.

Job stepped to the side immediately – Marion's eyes lit up as she saw the hair dryer in his hand, but then his eyebrow was indicating – quite insistently – that she should open the door. She hitched the towel a little more securely around her and did so, holding it upright with one hand and offering a smile to the two male officers on the other side.

"Ma'am," _bloody hell_ "we've had reports of a disturbance."

"Yes – three men pushed their way into my room," she explained. "I was having a shower – I heard a knock on the door and when I answered it they just broke the chain and shoved their way in. They've gone now though," she added as an afterthought.

"Any idea why ma'am?"

"They didn't say," she said honestly.

"Do you have anything of value in the room with you ma'am?"

_Nothing that would attract anyone's attention_ she thought, but saying that wouldn't help the situation. "I have a camera that's worth close to a thousand dollars plus cash and some personal jewellery," she catalogued. "They didn't get anything though."

"Can we see your id please ma'am?"

"Sure," Marion turned aside, keeping a hold of the door with one hand to stop it falling and revealing Job as she reached over to grab her bag. Her towel slipped a little with the movement and she grabbed at it, but her hands were full and she only partially arrested its descent. Acutely conscious of it dipping low down her back she braced one hip against the door and the opposing arm hard against her side to hold it while using both hands to rifle through her bag, passing one officer her passport.

"Are you injured?" asked the other officer, looking at her with some mild concern.

"I bumped my head," she shrugged. "I feel ok though."

"You're here for a holiday?" asked the first officer, examining the photograph in the passport and looking at her carefully for comparison.

"Yes," she nodded. "Sort of business as well – I'm a photographer."

"This your car?" asked the second officer, half turning to the small sedan parked at the front of the room.

"Well, I hired it," she replied.

"How long are you here for ma'am?" asked the first officer as he flicked through the passport to check that she had the appropriate visa.

"Here? Only for one night. Pennsylvania itself? Another month or so – depends on how many churches I find that are worth taking pictures of." She waited a moment. "Would you like to know anything about the men who kicked in my door?"

The officers' eyes narrowed at the bite in her tone, but one obediently flicked open a notebook. Three and a half minutes later Marion had provided a sketchy description of the men, listened politely to the platitudes of 'random incident', 'cars in the area' and provided her phone number in case they needed to contact her about the incident. She added on a request to thank the dispatcher, not really confident that it would be passed on but soothing her conscience by doing so.

"Well that was fun" she sighed, even as she offered a tight smile to the officers as the squad car reversed away from her room. Habit being what it was she stepped back to shut the door; it slipped on its only hinge and she yelped, grabbing for it and losing control of the back section of her towel. A band of iron came around her back and Job's hand caught at the handle, his knee riding between her thighs and against her centre as he wrestled the door back into its catch.

"Shit," she swore and turned around quickly, putting her nakedness hard against the door, feeling the memory of the warmth of his hand, arm and thigh against her skin.

His eyes flew upwards, meeting hers with something in them that made the bubbles in her belly ignite. _Really?_ her brain cautioned, but her body reacted without listening and she stood up on tiptoes and kissed him.

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Yes we are going into smut territory for the next chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

The smut got a little longer than the other chapters. Oops. I hope you enjoy it anyway.

Chapter 4

The droplet of water dropped off the edge of her shoulder blade and drawing his gaze down with it. It slammed into another droplet magnifying one of the dark moles that spotted her back and the joined pair bulged, threatening with every one of her slight movements to tumble further down to where the towel only perilously hung above the curve of her buttocks, into the crease between them.

Job swallowed, bringing his eyes back up to relative safety of her shoulders, discomposed with how that little droplet's journey was affecting his blood temperature _how long had it been?_

Life at Banshee wasn't without its charms, if one was impressed by the picturesque serenity of the farmland and forestry, with its simple pleasures of working honestly for a day's wages, which were then spent on hearth and family. The problem was that Job wasn't really into serenity and he definitely wasn't simple – nor was he particularly honest. Life in Banshee was incredibly dull and boring to him, only the occasional outing with Hood (and Carrie) and baiting Sugar giving him any excitement. The women in Banshee were all staid housewives, giggling school girls or Amish who wouldn't look at him except with a morbid combination of revulsion and fascination, even if he could look past their abysmal fashion. The men were even worse, almost to default homophobic Neanderthals in plaid that wouldn't even get him to unlace a garter let alone get down with.

_Too long_. Self service achieved the result, but it lacked an element which his body was suggesting very heavily was now within reach.

Her dress sense had done her a disservice. She wasn't a tuned machine like Carrie was, she obviously didn't exercise for the fun of it and there was padding in places but as she had stepped out of the shower, nipples rosy and proud, breasts pink and taut from the heat of the water he had felt a stirring. Then she had gone and put herself in harm's way for him, and damned if he could understand why – even with longer to think about it he doubted that he would be able to think of anyone else who had ever done that for him. Only Hood – but he was different. _Maybe she was different too_ he thought, she may have looked _at_ him, just like everyone else did, but then she had been willing to look past his carefully crafted exterior to talk _to_ him_._

And he wasn't used to that.

The sticking power of friction was finally overcome by the inexorable grip of gravity and the drop rolled down, slamming into another drop and accelerating down her spine until they were obliterated in the terry towelling around her hips. She shivered slightly, some small goosebumps rising on her skin and Job's mind returned to those rosy nipples, taut and erect...

"Well that was fun," she sighed and stepped back.

The door lurched, startling him back to attention and he grabbed at the edge of the door with one hand, putting his other hand up at door frame and pushing his foot forward at the bottom corner. He grunted with the effort of righting the door on its remaining hinge and then lifted it closed until he heard the latch. Then he looked down, ready to yell at her for being stupid.

And he saw her naked back. And backside. Naked. Hard on his thigh. Warm. _Moist_. On his thigh.

"Shit," she swore and turned around quickly, putting her back hard against the timber, and his gaze was suddenly full of towel only just covering the skin between her hips.

_Shit_ he thought, feeling his body react immediately, and lifted his eyes to meet her almost 'rabbit in the headlights' pair. Her mouth opened slightly and he readied himself for a barrage of abuse.

Then she kissed him.

Shock held him still and made his arms stiffen.

"I'm sorry," she gasped, backing away until she was flat against the door and held the towel more tightly against her body, an expression of sheer mortification on her face. "Oh – I'm so sorry. I didn't mean, I …." She closed her eyes and took a breath, physically calming her agitation. She opened her eyes again and gave him a slightly sheepish smile. "I grew up in a country town where their idea of political correctness would have been to you call you a 'he/she' instead of 'it' as an indication of the uncertainty as to whether to consider you male or female. And I'm terrible at reading people. I'm really sorry."

_Well why the fuck not?_

"You talk too much sweetheart," he smirked a little and leaned in, keeping his eyes on her widening ones as he gently took possession of her lower lip between his, pulling it to its full extension and holding it for a moment before releasing it.

"Really?" she asked, that rabbit in the headlights look back.

"Sister – _no-one_ labels me," he said firmly.

"Halleluiah," she murmured and dropped the towel.

The warmth of her open mouth on his lips, the slight weight of her hands on his shoulders and the feathering of her breasts against his chest sparked an immediate reaction. He wrapped one arm around her back and the other one under her naked rear end and lifted her up against him, hard, and tasted her gasp even as the electricity exploded in his veins at the contact.

She threw her arms up around his neck, bracing herself for a moment and then her legs wrapped around his waist, bringing her centre in direct contact with his now throbbing hard member. The electrical impulse in his blood exploded and he groaned. He surged forward and her head hit the timber with a clunk. She moaned a slight complaint, reminding him that she was actually carrying an injury and with some effort he reined in his desire, gentling his lips as they moved over hers and withdrawing slightly.

"Sorry," he said, his voice husky. "You alright?"

"I'm fine," she assured him, her own voice slightly strained and breathless.

His eyes travelled down her length, over her now taut breasts across her belly to the triangle of hair at the point where she was now stretched around him, her weight balanced by her thighs, his hands and the door he had her pressed against. "Oh darling, I can see that," he murmured, leaning forward to nibble at the muscle line up her neck.

She snorted in amusement at his words but stretched out her neck to guide him up its length until his teeth took a gentle grip on her ear lobe. The contact sent a shiver down her length, doing delightful things where they were connected.

"Fuck," he groaned, throwing his head back.

"That's the general idea," she quipped, lowering her own mouth to his ear and taking it between her teeth. She pulled at it gently and then exhaled.

"Motherfucker," he exclaimed as his entire body goosepimpled.

She giggled then, her eyes sparkling at him. "Now that's a _leeeettle_ beyond my comfort zone Job."

"You're a sassy bitch aren't you?" he glared and moved his hand to where her position had opened her centre, extending his middle finger right up inside her.

"Fuck," she groaned, her head falling back against the door with another clunk.

He grinned and pulled his finger out, then sent it and his pointer finger back in. She was wet and they slipped in easily; she jerked slightly, driving herself harder into him – the created friction made them both gasp.

"You have far too many clothes on," she stated.

Job took better hold of her and turned, taking the few steps to where he could plant her on the bench top. He reached around behind him to unclasp his skirt, his fingers fumbling slightly as she leaned in to run her tongue over his lips while her own hands unerringly found the hooks that kept his corset together. He opened his mouth and her tongue darted in, even as her hands found his bare chest and curled for a moment around his pectoral muscles. Her thumbs ran across his chest and then deliberately, latched her nails against his nipples and flicked them to the side.

"Fuck," he cried out, the skirt finally unlatched and on the ground. He latched his thumbs into his stockings and underpants, reefing them only as far as they needed to go to and then firmly grasping her hips and dragging her to the edge of the bench. Her eyes came back up to meet his, lust almost glowing in them, her mouth parted in anticipation.

There was a knock on the door and he froze, the head of his penis feathering her outer lips.

"Mrs Arnold?" called a female voice through the door.

Marion's head had turned at the noise, the rabbit in the headlight eyes back, and she leaned in slightly closer to him _seeking protection_. "Yes?"

"Ma'am – it is Sandra from the front desk," continued the voice. "I just wanted to check that you were alright?"

Job relaxed, turning his attention back to the nakedness in front of him and moving his hands to her legs, moving them up and trailing his thumbs along the inside of her thighs.

"I'm fine, thanks _Sandra_," called back Marion – her voice rising to a squeak as Job dipped his thumb at her sensitive nub and rolled it gently.

There was a pause before the woman called out again. "I understand there was some damage to the room – would you like to move?"

Job winced slightly as her nails dug into his shoulders, moving one thumb to the slightly more neutral position of her breast, rubbing against and around its swelling peak while he took the other one in his mouth, sucking gently.

"Thanks Sandra," Marion managed after a slight pause, her voice somewhat strained. "The room is ok and I really would just like to go to _bed_."

Job grinned up at her slight emphasis on the last word and closed his teeth around her nipple.

"If you're sure Mrs Arnold?" called the persistent Sandra.

"Oh I am _very_ sure," retorted Marion with a slight bite in her tone. "Thankyou!"

"Well, ok then," said Sandra somewhat doubtfully from the other side.

"Snoopy bitch," snarked Job, lifting his mouth to Marion's and exploring it, building the heat back up between them to furnace level. He moved his hand down to her hips and her thighs tightened around his. He pulled his head back, looking at her carefully. "You putting on the brakes snooki?"

"I got a little bit too carried away," she admitted. "This is not me."

"You seeing a happy ever after novel in your head snooki?" Job looked back at up her and cocked a brow.

Marion snorted. "No," and her word sounded harsh, harsh enough that he was taken aback a little. "I don't _want_ to stop – but," she gave a shrug and a twisted smile. "I've got _nothing_."

For a second he was confused, then he followed her eyes to where they were almost joined together and he experienced a little bit of a shock. _He had been ready to dive straight in. He _never_ got carried away like that._

"So you think that I might have something do you?" he growled at her. "I am a risk am I?"

She frowned at him, pulling back a little. "Well I don't know you from a bar of soap – so there is that possibility yes," she replied matter of factly. "I would also add that I do not have the luxury of indulging without potential consequences that I do not want at this time."

_Hell_.

"Then you're in luck sister," he retorted, quashing the slight sense of guilt. "Because I _am_ in the habit of indulging. But I always indulge _responsibly_."

Her brows lifted and a smile spread across her face. "You do?"

"I do," he replied and looked on the ground at his feet. "Where's my motherfucking clutch?"

Marion pulled a face and lifted up slightly, reaching under herself and extracting his purse. "Hope there wasn't anything breakable in it."

The irony made Job smile as he extracted a foil packet from amongst the other items. Marion took it out of his hand, tearing off the corner and extracting the condom as he carefully closed his purse and put it on the bench. She moved her hand to take a firm grasp of his shaft and rubbed her thumb across his tip and he hissed, grabbing both her hands and pushing them behind her. "You do that too much snooki and this party is going to end too early." He took the condom from her and rolled it on, taking his shaft in his hand and lifting his tip up against her sensitive nub. She gasped, her eyes fluttering closed and he repeated the movement a couple more times until she groaned a protest.

He took a hold of her hips and pulled her closer to the edge of the bench, slipping inside her with a smooth movement. His body exploded at the contact: he pulled back out and thrust into her again, fully encasing himself inside her wet centre. Marion straightened, changing the angle on his next thrust and both of them groaned at the completeness of the contact.

"Bed," she panted and he pulled her forward, still impaled on his shaft, and carried her to the bed – somewhat awkwardly given the position of his stockings. For a few moments they were apart as he laid her down and she scrambled to the head of the bed while he got rid of those encumbrances. Then they were together again, their mouths joining, hands exploring and then again he entered her. He moved within her, watching her face – eyes closed and mouth slightly open as it noiselessly gasped in time with his thrusts. He reached down and took a hold of one knee, pushing her knee towards her belly to open her more to him, extending his motions inside her. She cried out at the sensation and he felt her clench around him: with something akin to a supernova he felt his own release and his voice joined hers.

Marion opened her eyes and smiled at him and he gently and slowly retracted from her and then  
re-entered her. She gave a sigh and pulled at his head; their kiss was slow and languid, gathering the last bit of pleasure from the moment. Careful not to crush her, he lay down over her with most of his weight on his arms but enough on her to keep the contact for the longest time possible. He nibbled at her ear and she gently stroked her nails up his side. He shivered as a burst of goosebumps followed her movement and she giggled, resting her hands sedately on his back for a few moments and they lay in silence.

Marion took a breath and gently pushed at him. Job rolled off her, sitting up briefly to clean himself off and then lay on his back and she rolled over with him, laying her arm across his chest and pressing her body into his side.

"Will you stay?" she murmured.

"Until you're asleep," he replied.

"Good," she breathed and it wasn't long before she was indeed asleep.

It was several hours later that Job did move, gingerly to avoid waking her from the deep sleep that she had finally fallen into. He gathered his clothes and stepped into the bathroom, having a quick shower to wash away the scent of sex and then spending some time in front of the mirror to try and remedy the disorder done to his wig. Dressed and feeling more refreshed than he had in a long time he paused to look at her, sleeping under the blanket that he had placed over her. In sleep her face was peaceful but without her eyes she lost most of her beauty.

"What the fucking hell are you doing?" he asked out loud.

Marion stirred a little, curling up further in the blanket, frowning a little.

"Get a grip," he told himself and strode to the door. He opened it carefully, both because of the damage to its hinge and the potential for someone to be on the other side. Finding it clear he stepped outside, carefully closing the door and walking back to where he had left his car.

Heading back to Banshee.

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

I am going to leave this here for the foreseeable future but I have intentions of continuing if I can catch these plot bunnies.


End file.
